


Lifeboat

by looselips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, One Shot, POV Sam Winchester, POV Second Person, Season 1, sam is sad. i was sad while i wrote this. this is a sad fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29141778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looselips/pseuds/looselips
Summary: "You don't need solutions. You don't need to move on from your grief. You need someone to see your grief, to acknowledge it. You need someone to hold your hands while you stand there in blinking horror, staring at the hole that was your life. Some things cannot be fixed; they can only be carried."-Megan DevineSam tries to sleep.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 5





	Lifeboat

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written a second person fic in my life but i saw the quote in the summary on tumblr and i've had such severe writers block recently that when it got the gears turning i just didn't question it
> 
> unbeta'd, and written while my mental state was not good. have fun <3

There’s a headache on it’s way, forming behind your closed eyes, hitting the high points of your sinuses; you can feel it build, feel the pressure against your skin and bone. You’re not sure if it’s a storm headache, or something else. Something worse.

It’s not like the staying up all night is new -- you’ve spent your lifetime running on four hours, chasing sleep like a feral dog with a chain around its neck. You’ve pulled more all-nighters in the last few years, dragged yourself through more classes running off caffeine and prayer, than you can count.

Granted, this is different circumstance. More familiar circumstance perhaps, yes, but it’s still bitterly different; it sits in the back of your throat like the rest of that stomach bile you’ve been forcing yourself to keep down because puking in the Impala or asking Dean to pull over are both not even remotely close to options. It sits amongst that smokey anger, stewing like sour memories, sour feelings, soured _clothes_ and _plans._

You were gonna marry her someday. You were gonna marry her someday, and now saying her name hurts; hurts like a blade, hurts numb and slow like the worst kind of blood rush.

Bumpy rides teeming with music you only like because of tainted nostalgia don’t feel like home the way they used to, don’t feel like _your_ home -- with her mugs, her clothes, her make-up, that hopeful bubble in your chest you’d never felt before -- but this backseats the closest thing you’ve got. You try to imagine if normal people feel that same anxious cold spot in the pits of their stomach if they have to move back with their family after college. You try to ignore the grating voice in the back of your mind that says they don’t.

“I know you’re awake,” Dean says suddenly from the drivers side in front of your head, voice filling a pin-hole gap of silence in-between the turned down stereo, the rain, and the road noise. You open your eyes, staring at a minuscule stain on the ceiling. Probably coffee -- maybe ice cream, maybe soda. Probably your fault.

“What gave me away?” You ask after a beat. You try to keep your tone light; he doesn’t need your shit. You’re both tired.

“Nobody moves that much in their sleep. Not even a giraffe like you,” he replies with a gaze in the rear-view, like he knows you anymore.

You wonder how he sees you, at this point. If you’re a person in his eyes yet, or still just that kid who didn’t wanna shoot things that looked like people. That kid who broke their arm trying to fly. That kid who nagged him and Dad to come on hunts, just to complain the whole time. That kid who spent hours reading uncle Bobby’s books, even the ones they weren’t _‘supposed’_ to. _That_ kid.

In a strange way, in a way you can't and won’t admit, you hope it’s the latter. For right now, at least.

“You should really try to get some rest while it’s still dark, man,” he says. “I don’t want you stallin’ out on me.”

You think about telling him that it’s too soon. That you can’t sleep, can’t relax, without vivid reminders of a moment you’re expected to have made peace with by now -- or at least, be able to pretend you have. You think about telling him about the nightmares, about jolting awake to the fading smell of smoke. You think about telling him you wish you’d burned up with everything else.

You don’t, though. You don’t, and “Okay, mom,” is what you spit back instead, because it’s simple. Because that’s what you two do.

He doesn’t respond after that, fading into the scenery.

You shift on the bench-seat, head and shoulders pressed against the door, mind and body still protesting about sleeping with your shoes on. You close your eyes again, trading that oh-so-interesting coffee stain for darkness. For shapes and colors.

You take a deep breath, huffed out your nose, arms folded up in your jacket, and you try. You try for him and you try for _her,_ because through the lump in your throat, you know she wouldn’t ever wanna see you like this. Wouldn’t ever want you to feel like this.

You try because you have to, and when you wake up four hours later to your brother blasting some song that came out before you were even thought of, the cold leather of the seat underneath you seeping into your bones, you’re trying your goddamn hardest then, too.

And you don’t ever stop.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to follow me on [tumblr](https://lionpaws.tumblr.com/)


End file.
